


Gonna Make You Sweat

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Kink Your Revolution, Multi, Oral Sex, Sparring, Threesome, Warning: Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie drops her sword slowly, then raises her hands so that her breasts push together and threaten to spill out of the low neckline of the thin cotton tank.  Her bra was in the wash, she’d protested when Miles raised an eyebrow, and it had been true.  Just not the whole truth, which involves the sick little game she and Monroe have been playing lately, pushing and pushing to see who will be the first to break.  Sparring, in every sense of the word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gonna Make You Sweat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hayj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayj/gifts).



> Pure smut, for Kink Your Revolution and Part II of a "very smutty returns" kind of post-birthday present for hay. *mwah* Fill is a centre-line bingo on card 1, Miles, threesome, Charlie (for my Go Wild), sparring, Bass.

“Don’t let him push you back like that.  Every time he gets you on that back foot, he’s stealing the fight.  And dammit – stop strangling your fucking sword. Loosen up,” Miles snarls.

“Maybe I’ll strangle you instead,” Charlie mutters, and her opponent chokes down a laugh. “Fucker.”

“You have no idea,” Monroe parries, then strikes, wrong footing her once more.  “But he is right.  You don’t choke a sword.  You caress it.  Adore it. Most faithful lover you’ll ever have.”

Charlie flushes, the rough timbre of his voice warming her more than the half hour of sparring they’ve done.  It’s different with Miles watching them, she realises.  Less play, more performative. She swings blindly, but he’s already spinning away so quickly that she loses track of his steel until it comes to rest against her throat.

“I’m afraid you’re dead, Charlotte,” he purrs into her ear, and _fuck_. Her body betrays her with a gush of shameless, sticky proof that she is very far from dead.  The opposite, in fact.  Young, and alive, and bursting out of her skin after months of frustration. She’d tried to bury it in every boy she came across, but it was no use.  She didn’t want sweet, or curious, or awestruck.

Somehow, body and soul alike have fixated upon her enemy-turned-ally, who can piss her off and arouse her beyond bearing in the same breath.  Or sword stroke, Charlie thinks wryly, struggling to get her mind back in the game.

Sword, neck, Charlie.  Focus.

Miles is yelling somewhere, strategies for her escape no doubt, but Charlie’s a realist.  If she came up against a swordsman the calibre of Monroe, there would be only one way out.  Unfortunately, Uncle Miles wasn’t going to be a fan.

Charlie drops her sword slowly, then raises her hands so that her breasts push together and threaten to spill out of the low neckline of the thin cotton tank.  Her bra was in the wash, she’d protested when Miles raised an eyebrow, and it had been true.  Just not the whole truth, which involves the sick little game she and Monroe have been playing lately, pushing and pushing to see who will be the first to break.  Sparring, in every sense of the word.

“What the _hell_ , Charlie?”

“I’m surrendering, Miles.  It’s generally a wiser strategy than death.”

“You’re fucking sparring, kid.  Pick up your sword and keep going ‘til you don’t get dead.” Miles underlines his wisdom with baleful stare, then spins on his heel, muttering something about Blanchard’s rosters.   

Monroe waits like a statue until Miles is out of sight.  Then he throws his sword on top of her own. Charlie moves to drop her hands but he clucks his tongue, forbidding it.  She can’t see his face, but she knows him well enough to picture the mix of smug satisfaction and heated intent. 

“Oh no, Charlotte.  Keep ‘em up.  Been a while since I had the pleasure.”

“Guess so, Mr President.  Probably ‘cause you sucked at your job,” she goads. 

His low chuckle vibrates next to her ear as he folds his body around hers. “Wasn’t talking about your surrender, Charlotte,” he says, the heat of his gaze a living thing as it roamed her unfettered cleavage.   “Can’t say I’ve ever had one so pretty though.  And completely unconditional, too,” he purrs.

She wants to protest, but the truth is, her conditions aren’t all that important.  She’s done with the taunts, and the proximity, and the way his eyes always find her, no matter the bullshit that comes out of his mouth.  So maybe she’s not the only Matheson he’s thinking about. He might even be right, with some of the things he says about Miles.

It doesn’t matter.   They both know the score.  Temptation one, Charlie zero, and now it’s time to call the game. 

And maybe up the stakes, and move from sparring into something resembling a real fight.

*

Miles seems to think every battle will be won with a weapon on her hand, but Monroe likes to disarm her, and make her figure out what comes next.  How to roll away from an attacker, how to stash a knife somewhere secret, all the dirty tricks she can use to fight way out from underneath a bigger opponent. 

Dirty tricks they’ve been practicing for weeks.  Hot, frantic battles that erupted whenever they found themselves alone together - between missions, when Miles was passed out drunk, fortunate coincidences in their daily routines. Just yesterday she’d caught him washing up out back and had tackled him before he’d had the chance to dry off or pull his shirt back on.

She can still feel his damp skin burning into hers, and hear the taunts he’d dropped into her ear.  “Pretend it’s my knife, Charlotte,” as his cock hardened between her thighs and “use your knee.  Go on.  Teach me a lesson.”

She’d tried.  Oh, how she’d tried, but her knee had been pinned by his much heavier thigh, and his arms had bracketed her own overhead.  The only weapon she had left was her mouth – and the dizzying spectacle of his muscled torso, looming above her.

So she’d parted her lips and sucked one flat, male nipple between her teeth.  She’d been going to bite, but the sweet tang of him demanded a flick of her tongue, then a long suck.  His hips had slammed her into the ground in what could only be called a thrust, and he couldn’t have failed to notice how the way her legs had spread to accommodate him. She’d moaned, and sucked, and moaned again, and he had rained curses into her hair, his usual mockery yielding to something more urgent.

“Fuck! That’s one way to kill me, kid.  Death by blue balls.  The Matheson fucking speciality,” he groaned, and yes, that was the reminder she needed.

Bass Monroe liked to tie her in knots, but sometimes she felt like a weapon in his ongoing war with her uncle.  They’d called a ceasefire on outright hostilities the night they’d saved Willoughby together; the night Monroe had chosen their cause over personal power, and his own son.   But the things he’s said since, the wounded bull act, his sniping and taunts, have made one thing clear: he’d chosen Miles, and was pissed as hell Miles hadn’t chosen him.

Enter fucked up Charlie Matheson, who knows it’s all kinds of wrong to want the man responsible for killing half your family, but can’t seem to help it.  Even when he makes it perfectly clear that “best friend” and “brother” are code for something much more carnal.

And maybe … no.  He was just teasing, that day Miles had waded into the river, too hot to bother taking off his clothes first.  He’d sloshed out, wet denim moulded to him like a lover, and Charlie had found her gaze panning down to the proud outline of her uncle’s cock.  She had jerked her eyes away, only to be confronted by Monroe’s smirk. 

His guttural whisper had been pure sin.  “That’s just the starter, kid.  You should see him raring to go.”

He’d licked his lips, practically salivating at the memory, and the thunderbolt that drenched her panties must have been written on her face.  He’d leaned closer, breath puffing over her ear. “Just wait ‘til you find out how good he tastes.”

She’d stumbled, her progress towards the river halted in her shock.   Monroe had laughed aloud and kept going, driving his shoulder into Miles as he shoved past.

Her mind was still reeling with the implications when Miles ambled up to throw himself down next to her, head tilted back to take in the last of sun’s rays.  The water dripping from his hair zigzagged into his five-o-clock shadow, and sat in the hollow of his throat, mesmerising her.

“Don’t you want to cool off?” he’d asked, inky lashes swooping upwards to pin her with his lazy stare. “Bass won’t bite.”

“Sure about that?” she fired back, then cursed herself for the question that flared in his eyes.  She couldn’t answer it, not in that state, so she forced herself forward, shedding her boots and weapons, and plunged into the water after Bass.

Not that she let herself look at him.  Or Miles.  But it didn’t help.  Her lurid imagination had insisted on supplying enough filthy images to damn her anyway, and every time she sparred with Monroe he fuelled her fantasies that little bit more.  

“Know what we used do with the cadets that looked like you in Philly? Work them out on the practice ground then give them a rubdown in the bedroom after,” he’d hissed into her ear yesterday.

She’d bitten down hard on his ear and called him a predator, making him tilt his head as if considering the charge, then rejecting it.  “Don’t think so, little cat.  Not like we forced them.  Even let them decide who they wanted in their pussy and who’d get to fuck their ass.”

She’d nearly dropped her sword at that one.   “Uncle Miles wouldn’t do that,” she’d hissed, and he’d laughed in her ear.

“What? Fuck his soldiers or fuck a girl in the ass?  Sure he would.  I mean, at first he would try to keep his hands off, drowned himself in the guilt, the usual Miles gig, but he got over himself.   Just like any day now he’s gonna stop telling himself he doesn’t want to pound you senseless.  Do something about it rather than jacking off half the night thinking about whatever the fuck it is we’re doing.”

She’d gone cold all over.

“What do you mean?  We’re not doing anything, and even if we were, Miles hasn’t noticed.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Charlotte.  Maybe you’re Matheson enough to actually believe it.”

She hadn’t, of course.  And she’d turned her head towards her uncle’s bedroll last night, a whisper of sound reaching her in the dark.

“Go to sleep, kid,” he’d grunted, but his voice had been hoarse.

And this morning she’d woken from a dream with her body still pulsing at the image of Monroe’s obscenely beautiful lips stretched around her uncle’s cock, Miles fucking his face furiously as she, oh God, as she … 

Threw down her sword, put up her hands, and begged to surrender.

 

*

 

“Maybe I want watch you two sparring for a change.  Show me how big boys do it,” Charlie pouts, trying not to giggle when Monroe’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline at her uncharacteristic girlishness.

“We’re not boys, Charlotte,” he grunts, but he’s already moving for his spare sword, as Miles approaches with both blades bare.

She waits until they’re warily circling each other to raise the stakes. “Gonna make the winner sweat.”

Miles grins at that, but Monroe swings around to eyeball her.  She smiles back, triumphant.  So this is how it feels to have the upper hand.

She aches to taunt him more, to torture him with want the way he’d tortured her, but it’s too late for that now.  He holds her white flag, and she might even understand. 

Besides.  The fight is underway. They weave around each other like cobras, gazes locked, muscles taut, as graceful as dancers.  Two halves of the one whole, she finds herself thinking.  Endlessly yearning to put themselves back together.

The ring of steel on steel dispels her romantic haze, and she snorts at the idea of Miles yearning for anything.  Monroe had made it damn clear that all Miles had to do was snap his fingers and he’d just bend right over.  Probably literally, Charlie snickers.  Then she groans at the mental image and has to force herself to return her attention to the bout.

Hurry up, she wills them, unable to bear the beauty of the dance.  Hurry up.  I want to win.

“Uncle!” Monroe yells finally, long minutes after he and Miles abandoned their swords to grapple on the ground.  Charlie’s practiced eye tells her he could have probably escaped that lock, but she’s too aroused to complain.

“Well, that’s that then,” she grins, and stands over them, nudging Miles with the toe of her boot.  “You can stay there if you like.”

He grins up at her and holds out his hand for a lift up.  “No roughhousing for you, kid.  Grab your sword.”

Charlie takes his hand but ignores his request.  “Nope.”  Then she folds at the knee to settle in his lap.  “I can get you plenty sweaty from right here.”

Every muscle in that rangy body jumps, and his panic vibrates between them, a living thing.  So is his cock, Charlie notices, already hard.  She tries to resist, wants him to want this, but … it feels too good, rising between her legs.   “Someone likes sparring with Monroe,” she gasps, and drags herself forward, and back.

“Question is, Miles, do you want to spar with me?”

Miles slams his eyes shut as if not seeing her will help.  Charlie slumps, defeated, but then his hands clamp around her hips, and he pulls her down into a slow, hard grind.  Her head flies up to see how he’s feeling, but she barely registers the frantic glower in coal black eyes before the rhythmic pressure robs her of focus.

“Oh God.  So good,” she pants, widening her knees to give herself the full press of him.  Her hands scrabble at his belt, desperate to get inside, but the pleasure threatens to overtake her.  “Fuck, Miles.”

Bass steps in behind her, feet braced either side of Miles’ thighs, hands reaching round to weigh her breasts.  His thumbs graze her nipples into aching prominence, and she can’t help but lean back into him, rubbing like a cat against the thrust of his cock behind her head.

“Just Miles?” he asks, the satisfaction thick in his voice telling her he already knows her answer.

 “No.  Please Bass.  Like you said.  Please.”

“Said a lot of things, Charlotte.  Try being precise.”

Heat scalds her cheeks and she darts a glance at Miles, who raises an eyebrow. He still hasn’t said yes to any of this, but he’s not running, and he’s not trying to kill Monroe, so she’ll take that as a good sign.

Charlie turns her face into Monroe’s hip and takes a deep breath. Time to throw down.

“Both of you.  Together.”

“Oh, baby.  Not the first time.  We want to play with you first.  Warm you up.  Make you _desperate_ ,” Monroe croons, lifting the loose tank over her head. 

Miles groans long and loud underneath her as his eyes fix on her rosy-tipped breasts.  Charlie smiles, and lets herself fall forward to hover over him, daring him to cross the gap.  To take.  Instead he slams her back down, cock hitting the seam of her jeans right over her clit, catapulting her into madness.

She is moaning and begging for release when Monroe lifts her away, Miles following her up with an outraged snarl until he realises that Monroe is tearing apart the closure on her jeans, and shoving them down towards her ankles.  She falls in a heap as they get stuck on her boots, then starts to laugh as he tries to wrestle them free.

“Need to fuck you, baby,” he whines, and she knows, she _knows_ , but … it’s still fucking hilarious.  She bites her lip and tries to keep it in as he yanks off her boots, but then she makes the mistake of glancing at Miles.  He’s hiding his smile under his hand, but rare as it is, she knows that face.

“Fucking dorks,” he snorts, and when Monroe swings around to glare, grabs him by the neck.  “Missed you,” he mutters, then shoves their lips together, licking and biting until their tongues clash with all the heat of a duel.

Maybe it is, Charlie grins.  They can fight all they like when it looks like this, furious bites and tortured groans and hipbones clashing as they grind their cocks together.  She watches, spellbound, then starts to move towards them, their heat as irresistible as gravity.

They don’t stop kissing but turn to pull her between them, nude body a playground for their hungry hands.  She takes it upon herself to strip them of their shirts and boots and pants, and the sudden realisation they are all naked is what finally prises Miles and Monroe apart.  They look at each other, then turn to her as one.

“Come here, Charlotte.”

“Kind of here already, Monroe.  Been here a while, in fact.”

“Smartmouthed brat.  Shame she has such pretty tits, isn’t it Miles?”

“Real shame,” her uncle agrees, almost choking on his smirk.  “What you going to do about that, Bass?”

“Suck on ‘em until she forgets to be smart, maybe.”

Miles snorts.  “Like you can fuck a Matheson into submission.  You know better than that, Bass.”

Monroe’s smile is a wicked, slow blooming thing that sends a shiver up Charlie’s spine.  He’s teased her, taunted her, driven her to the point of distraction, but he’s never looked at her quite that way before. “Jesus.  You’re right.  How could I forget.”

He stalks closer, crowding her back against the trunk of a tree.  “Always had to be a fight with your uncle, Charlie.  I’d have to pin him down, or tie him up, or suck his cock until he was fucking bursting to come.  Then he’d beg me.  Practically cry for it.  And sometimes – I’d actually let him come.”

She’s picturing the scene in her mind, every tortured gasp and cruel denial, as his hands land on her body, caressing the turn of her hip and the dip of her waist before coming to rest on her breasts, fingers just shy of grazing her nipples.  Suddenly, she _aches_.

“Will you fight us, Charlie?  Will you try and hold out?  Or will you just lie back and let us do what we want with you?”

She wants to scream “yes, yes, yes” but her obstinate body seems to have other ideas, her muscles tensing for the fight.  He doesn’t mean it, her common sense protests, but too late.  She has already struck, her fist rocketing into the corner of his kiss-swollen mouth.

“Fuck me, you bastard.”

Monroe rubs at his mouth, fingers smearing through the trickle of blood he finds there.  He licks them clean as if she’s given him a gift, an infuriating little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.  

“Well, when you put it that way …”  his arm loops about her waist and suddenly the bark of the tree is scratching up her breasts rather than her back. “No.”

He pinions her arms over her head and kicks her legs apart.  “What shall we do with this delicious prisoner, Miles?”

Shaggy brows lower over momentarily worried eyes, and Charlie smiles tremulously, hoping it will reassure Miles she's well able to play this game. Maybe one day she'll be able to confess just how often she has played it solo, rearranging her memories of being Monroe's captive into the most powerful of climaxes. Instead, she just moans, and doesn't bother to hide how wanton she is feeling. He must pick up on her message, because he moves away, circling around to her other side, stalking her like the bogeyman once was.

"Going to beat a confession out of her?" she hears him ask from somewhere just outside of her field of vision. “Wonder how long she can hold out?” he asks, closer now, and then can feel his hands, huge and callused, running up the inside of her legs, delving into where she is wettest.  “Jesus.  She’s gonna scream her head off.”

“You’ll just have to keep her quiet,” Monroe commands, and Charlie is pretty damn sure Miles actually salutes.

“Sir, yes sir,” she hears, and a hand falls heavy across her mouth, hot breath and then a rough tongue playing across her ear as a leaking cock marks a slippery path across her hip.

“Uncle Miles,”  Charlie moans, and flicks her tongue into his palm, just for the chance to taste his skin. 

Then she feels a hot breath tickling the lips of her sex, and a tongue parting them.  She is so overstimulated that Monroe’s first pass over her clit leaves her shaking, and his second throws her right to the edge of orgasm.  He leaves her there, moving away to flick his tongue into her hungry cavern, then around the shockingly sensitive ring just below.  His doesn’t even touch her with his hands, she despairs, and it’s not until Miles starts to keen in her ear she realises they are busy elsewhere.  There’s a hot splash of something sticky on the small of her back and she’s suddenly, violently jealous because Miles, fuck him, Miles gets …

Monroe angles his mouth back over her clit and nudges it with his tongue and her entire body clenches so hard, she wonders if this orgasm will actually hurt.  There’s a low laugh against her thigh, and nuzzle and she’d love that if she wasn’t, if she didn’t …

“Please, Bass.  Please, Bass.  Please.   Make me come.  I need to come,” she wails, and there’s a satisfied snort against her back – bastard – and fingers, oh god, fingers driving into her as his tongue smears her juices from clit to asshole, shoving her closer and closer to ecstasy.  It’s the unexpected shove of his little finger into her back passage that makes her erupt, her astonished shout echoing through the trees as she floods into his mouth and grinds against his face through wave after wave of convulsions.

Charlie is completely boneless by the time Miles picks her up and cuddles her shivering form against his chest.  Bass slumps beside them, combing his fingers through her hair as he tugs lazily at his cock.

“Thought you were going to keep her quiet?”

“As if you didn’t love making her howl.”

“Don’t love the thought of anyone finding us out here like this,” Bass objects idly, then rolls onto his back.  “People might talk when they see you sucking my cock.”

“People might,” she hears Miles agree, laughter buried deep in his lazy voice.  “Figure they’ll forget all about that first time they catch us fucking, though.”

Bass lets out a strangled moan, and Charlie forces her eyes open to see what could possibly make the continent’s most notorious madman sound so very wrecked.   The other madman, she discovers, who has his head tipped back, licking and sucking as Bass slowly fucks his mouth.

She groans, jealous, and Monroe tilts his head in mute question.

“Next time, I’ll fight him for it,” she grins.  “Right now, I’m too well fucked to do anything but watch.”

He makes her wait until he’s emptied himself down Miles’ throat, then pulls her between them as they collapse back against the tree.  Her eyes are already closing when he sets his lips against her ear and whispers the final challenge.

“Rematch, tomorrow at dusk.  And trust me.  You don’t know what well fucked is yet.”

_fin_


End file.
